"They're benign," the radiologist says, pointing to specks on the x ray that look like dust motes stopped cold in their dance. His words take my spine like flame. I suddenly love the radiologist, the nurse, my paper gown, the vapid print on the dressing room wall. I pull on my radiant clothes. I step out into the Hanging Gardens, the Taj Mahal, the Niagara Falls of the parking lot.